


Pygmalion

by larissabernstein



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Aestheticism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Art Philosophy, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Literary References & Allusions, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: What if there had been no Christine Daaé turning up at the opera house, at least not in the way we know her? What if Erik had found his true companion in the mannequin? What if the mannequin had come to life?A canon-tangential phic, inspired by the myth of Pygmalion. Key events from the musical will be incorporated.





	Pygmalion

**Author's Note:**

> ALW universe, with just a touch of Leroux and Kay. And when I say ALW, I mean the original interpretation of the Phantom. Because reasons.  
> Mature rating reflects the tone of later chapters and might climb up to Explicit in the future.

virginis est verae facies, quam vivere credas,

et, si non obstet reverentia, velle moveri:

ars adeo latet arte sua. miratur et haurit

pectore Pygmalion simulati corporis ignes.

It’s the appearance of a perfect girl, whom you may deem alive,

And, if modesty did not forbid it, with the wish to move:

So much does art hide through his art. So marvels and drinks in

Pygmalion the fiery passion with his heart for the created flesh.

(Publius Ovidius Naso, _Metamorphoseon libri_ , Liber X, 250-253; translation L.B.)

**Pygmalion**

**Prologue**

There was something both comforting and infuriating about a world _en miniature_ ; beyond the mere practicality, the mundane usefulness, of architectural models that transformed the flat art of drawings and plans into a three-dimensional world of playful make-believe, it offered tactile control and an orderly bird’s eye view of the corporealised shapes and forms, colours and proportions that swirled in the kaleidoscopic chaos of a brilliant mind. Interior and stage design especially benefitted from the palpable variety of materials and textures that could be used in the conceptual design, and there was a certain levity and even fun to be found in the ever changing opera and ballet productions and the particular demands of their respective music. It was quite different from what Erik had worked with for the better part of the fourteen years it had taken to build the _Opéra_. Had he then focused fully on the complicated relationship between innovative construction work and engineering on one hand, and the overall aesthetic challenge of a building dedicated to art on the other - and when it came to this delicate balance the gullible M. Garnier had really given him free rein and trusted him to come up with the most daring solutions befitting a temple of music -, the daily business of actually running this theatre and making sure the details of the individual performances did justice to the grand artistic scheme of the house itself, because naturally the part had to reflect the whole, was akin to managing the microcosm of divine creation. And _Monsieur le Directeur_ , a puppet going by the name Lefèvre, did not seem to mind - that is to say, after some gentle efforts at persuasion - the potent creative genius that permeated the very walls of the opera house and manifested itself regularly in the form of costume sketches, notes with stage directions and casting advice, and intricate set design miniatures, all of which appeared on his desk as if by an invisible hand he had come to dread, expect, and - yes, that too - rely on.

However, and this was where the infuriating aspect came into play, while artistic needs had to be addressed in often excruciating details, and while certainly quite some fun could be had in these endeavours, in this day job Erik had acquired in the guise of a spectre, having been ordained by no one and nothing else than the power of his threatening presence, it left him increasingly hungry for more, for something purer and more immediate than images of images, effigies of effigies. Erik was an artist, first and foremost, even if he had spent way too much time over the last few years distracting himself by obsessing over scenery and costumes and orchestration, as a means of doing justice to other composers’ works, doing justice to this grand temple of music and theatrical magic, and - last, but not least - doing justice to the divine realm of art itself. His own magnum opus, however, was coming together at a maddeningly slow pace, and what good was it that he kept leaving his marks and his creative vision, uncredited and unrecognised, on all aspects of the _Opéra Populaire_ , all aspects but the one he most desperately craved? When would his own opera see the stage, and when would he be seen at last for the one beauty that was so innately his and his alone?

He furiously scratched at the last few notes he had written down just minutes ago, then thought better of it and crumpled up the sheet of only meagrely filled in staff paper into a ball, before flinging it across his parlour in a huff - narrowly missing the candelabra on the sideboard by sheer - good or bad - luck. He would not have minded a little inferno right now, if only to clear the haze in his brain, when everything was maddening, revolting, ugly - a testament to his failure! Nothing was going to work out tonight, with his mind numb and heart empty, save for a few conventional stock chords that even Gilbert and Sullivan would have been too ashamed to put to paper. He let his elbows rest heavily on the middle manual of the organ that gave a dissonant sound of protest at the rough handling. Ah, if only his composition could convey even half the drama of this outcry! But there was no drama, no passion in those notes, not even despair - just the ennui of bourgeois entertainment. Aminta’s aria was lacklustre and overly prim, but what distressed Erik the most was that he _knew_ exactly how she should sound, how she should be, down to the tiniest nuances in her tone, but damn him if he were able to capture her fleeting essence and actually write it down. She teased him, with her mix of innocence and erotic charisma, that little vixen teased him with the masterpiece he could write, he by all means was destined to write, yet she escaped his grasp with every turn of her maiden body, every coquettish smile and flick of curls, while all he could come up with in music were fragments and scraps, flying apart the moment he tried to bind them together. How he yearned to make his song take flight, but his creative force hit blockade after blockade, with inspiration having all but vanished into thin air.

Erik groaned and moved to get up from the bench by the organ, feeling his joints ache and creak under the tension. This night was not to be salvaged anymore in any truly ingenious sense, so he had better go back to work on the scenic design model of _Cleopatra_ that awaited him in his workshop. This production was another one of those lavish Chalumeau vehicles that seemed all the rage throughout Europe now, and while he could certainly think of a better and more daring piece than yet another boastful _grand opéra_ exploiting a historical theme - but then, a cruel voice in his mind admonished him, he should actually write his damn _better and more daring piece_! - he was still able to acknowledge the appeal of this traditional form. In the right hands, _his_ hands, and with the right artistic vision, _his_ vision, it could very well turn into a big success, worthy of this house, _his_ house. If only the cast had more spiritedness! Under his watchful eyes, the company had been able to acquire quite a few talented singers of international reputation, he could admit it in the privacy of his own thoughts, even despite the shortcomings they inevitably displayed as well, but still… something… someone sensational and unique was missing. Someone to take the stage by storm and shake up the self-assured patrons, and rattle their souls with the fire of music! And someone maybe - someone who could shake him out of his stupor and breathe new inspiration into his mind.

The paint on the miniature backdrops had dried already, Erik noticed with satisfaction when he carefully touched one edge of the desert landscape, and let the pads of his fingers feel the detailed high relief of the papier mâché pyramid up-stage. M. Lefèvre was likely to throw a fit - again - over the budget and manpower required to produce the elaborate sets and costumes on time, but there was nothing to be done about it; art and compromises never went together well - and the success of the past productions had proven just as persuasive as the Opera Ghost’s warning letters. If anything, it would only be fitting for Erik to ask for a raise of his own salary!

He felt his mood finally improving as he examined his work closely - certainly, scenic design was not exactly recognised as high art, but it was still a fine piece of handicraft, turning images of the mind into a little world that could be handled and played and transformed at will; and it would feed this energy back onto the big stage of the opera and hopefully into the hearts of the audience, stunning them with its magic and splendour and abducting them more vividly into the world of the music it supported with its visuals.

The era of tableau-style staging was a thing of the past, at least for Erik - and if contemporary reactions could be trusted at all, then the audience indeed longed for _verismo_. That was not exactly something certain _prime donne_ and heroic tenors were willing to understand or accept, as it often meant giving up their most advantageous position in the spotlight for the sake of the story, but nevertheless they were going to stick to the new concept, or else harsher methods of persuasion were ready to be employed. Theatrical music was never going to forego props and illusions, but still it was a truth it had to impart, in order to reach its full potential. Each note was connected to a corresponding position or gesture, a manoeuvre on the chess board of opera, bringing the characters on stage into a dynamic dialogue with the music as much as with each other. Erik had first tried a new method of using differently coloured wooden building blocks as stand-in for the performers on the miniature stage, to determine the best positions and movements for any given moment in the score, but in the end he went as far as fashioning little wax figurines of the main characters and dressing them in tiny and just slightly simplified versions of their costumes; it helped greatly with testing the overall effect of colour and texture as well, and he could jot down the instructions for the final staging step by step directly in the extended score and add separate sketches for the most crucial moments.

A fateful, yet entirely absurd, thought occurred to him when he was more or less absent-mindedly toying with the small wax doll of Cleopatra, main character in the production and also the leading cause of his recent opera-related headaches. Carlotta Giudicelli was by no means a bad singer, and she had earned her status as _prima donna_ through hard work. However, there were roles that fit her voice and limited range of acting well - yes, he could actually think of at least three such roles across the spectrum of traditional opera - and then there were roles that most assuredly did not. Lacking a better alternative, there was nothing he could do about that at the moment, though, Opera Ghost or not. Worse than any ill-matched casting was, however, the star’s inflated ego and her unpredictable attitude that spanned from emotional break-downs to furious rage and back. Erik looked at the tragic Egyptian queen in his hand and pictured Carlotta in her stead. She was going to have to suffice for this production, as much as it pained him, but could he… could he actually imagine her in the role of his Aminta? His hand twitched at the mere thought, a strange pain lancing through him, and he had to force himself to let go of the little wax doll lest he squash and ruin it. Carlotta as Aminta?? No, never - how scandalous and disgraceful an idea! This was not the kind of passion he had in mind for sweet Aminta. Carlotta was entirely too self-aware and a - sometimes useful, often just terrible - force of nature, a suitable Gioconda, not a bad Sélika, and maybe - at quite a stretch - a passable Carmen, but never his innocent Aminta, a maiden just discovering herself and only beginning to confront the erotic desires hidden in her heart.

Erik put Carlotta’s wax stand-in back to her appointed position on the stage, at a safe distance from any sudden bouts of rage that might yet befall him, and turned away from the display, deflated and angry. As things stood now, he was not going to ever complete his masterpiece in any case. But he could perfectly see her in his mind, behind closed eyes, the unique woman who would do justice to his Aminta, her angelic features, her strong but dulcet, youthful voice, a spinto soprano. She was the one, only she, and she was going to rescue him one day, set him free, like an angel coming down from heaven to save the unworthy and elevate his dark music to unknown heights. And she would be more than just a passionate singer, no, she would devote her life, her soul, her whole existence to art, to _his_ art, and he would guide her willingly on their joint path to a strange new world of a completely fresh and revolutionary music. Ah, he could hear it already - hear the music he was going to compose for her, hear her voice calling out to him in the night, see the music magically take written form on the sheets, feel the soft beckoning of her body and her trusting gaze - a gaze that would only see the beauty of his music and never focus on the cursed distortion of his face and the monster behind it. He felt his hands reach out before him, trembling with excitement, to grasp at the image conjured by his mind, felt their urge to create - to mould - to touch and be touched in return. It was inconsequential if there existed such a living, breathing woman in reality - if anything, it would have been almost sacrilegious to consider this possibility. Human beings were faulty and the epitome of unjust imperfection - was he himself not a prime example of this very fact? But art - art was beauty, truth, and goodness - if brought to the perfection it deserved. Maybe the question of the ideal role casting was not really the priority, he could see that now, no, the only thing that mattered was that he had to possess this angel first and foremost for himself, to give in to the reification of his artistic genius; who cared if he was ever going to see his _Don Juan_ performed on the stage, if he only had the power to at least complete it, spurred on by the angelic face and her voice resounding in his mind. Writing his work meant experiencing it, living it, the flow of notes as vibrant as the blood still running through his veins; she would be his bride in creation and finally in death, but always art for art’s sake.

A miniature idol of this goddess, his personal saviour and muse, was not going to suffice, that much was clear. And suddenly Erik knew exactly what he had to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise - even a polymath such as Erik can suffer from writer's block and seek refuge in procrastination.


End file.
